


Resurrection

by Johannas_Motivational_Insults



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Post-Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8643811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johannas_Motivational_Insults/pseuds/Johannas_Motivational_Insults
Summary: "I thought I'd had plenty enough fire in my lifetime, but as it turns out, I long to be set ablaze again. That's why I'm here."A nightmare chases Katniss from District 12 one year post-war. Canon compliant post-Mockingay.





	

Visions of terror and grief dominate my memories. Blood and pain and death, so much death. Deaths of my loved ones, deaths at my hand. They follow me always, lurking like shadows in waking and seizing my consciousness in sleep. But there is one memory that haunts me above all others, most bothersome despite being far from unpleasant.

It was not the first time one of us had crawled into the other's bed to calm her down after a nightmare. Not the first time her slim arms had wrapped around my quaking midsection, her steady breaths tickling the sensitive skin of my ear. But it was the first and only time the comfort cuddles evolved into comfort kisses and then something else altogether. Lips meeting skin, and then lips, and then other skin, sensations springing up in strange places.

I remember the way she made me ache for her with slow, deliberate touches. The way she drove me absolutely mad, in a way I'd never known was possible. I remember fingers migrating down my abdomen, lips down my breastbone, garments down my limbs, wide brown eyes down my body. I remember my own hands exploring the soft warmth of another being, clutching at her, at this fleeting sense of connection and purpose. I remember their curious roaming and determination to even the score, to free her the way she freed me. The satisfaction I felt when they succeeded.

I remember how I yearned for her after that night, how I craved a reprisal but was far too shy to ask, to do anything but try not to stare when she'd strip down in our compartment. It became much more difficult after that, not that I'd ever been very good at averting my eyes from Johanna. The closest I ever came to asking was resting my lips on the top of her bare shoulder while holding her from behind, after her nightmares woke me the next night. But when she failed to respond in any way, I lost all confidence. It never happened again, and I never had the chance to express what it meant to me.

In hindsight, I think that was why I went out of my way to gather that bundle of pine needles for her after her flashback in the Block. I wanted her to know I cared about her, but how I felt was not something that could be put into words. Words were never my strong suit, anyway. They were Peeta's.

They still are. They might be all he has, in fact. He speaks promises to me of a better life, of happiness and fulfillment. Empty promises, though that's hardly his fault. He's the mutt, but I'm the one who's broken beyond repair. He tries to fix me, with his arms and his lips. With his undying love. I wish it would work. No, I willed it to work, pushing forward when I felt the tiniest niggle of desire in my gut, hoping it would bloom the way it did once before, with her. I'd hoped I could find that spark again, whatever it was that made me truly _want_. I never have, despite his best efforts. There is comfort in his touches, but they lack fire. I thought I'd had plenty enough fire in my lifetime, but as it turns out, I long to be set ablaze again. That's why I'm here.

The rain has finally ended, and with it my excuse to delay this last leg of my journey. Collecting my bag from beside me on the chipped cedar bench, I stand and leave the platform. Inside the train station, I ask for directions to the Victor’s Village. The man in the ticket booth hands me a pamphlet with a map inside and draws on it with a freshly sharpened pencil, leaving flecks of graphite strewn along the route. “Twenty minute walk. Not too bad,” he says. “Unless you want me to call you a cab.” I decline wordlessly. The exercise will help calm my nerves, I hope.

Folding the pamphlet back up, the man hands it to me, catching my eye. He recognized me from the moment I approached him, I could tell by the way he recoiled slightly. Maybe he was afraid I would shoot him in broad daylight too. “She still lives there,” he tells me. Because who else would I be in Seven to visit, much less in the Victor’s Village? How he guessed I came uninvited, I am not sure. Possibly my need for directions, or more likely something to do with her personality, or mine. I nod with a grunt, slipping the map from his grasp and averting my eyes as soon as possible.

Slinging the strap of my duffel bag over my shoulder, I venture out into the streets, crinkling the pamphlet in an anxious fist. Vibrant autumn leaves litter the asphalt, clogging drains and leaving a stream of water to lap at my hunting boots as I walk. Somehow, those dead leaves appear more alive than I feel. At least they make a small crunch of protest when trod upon. I’ve long lost the energy to protest such things. Maybe that’s why my life no longer feels like it’s mine. Before I packed a bag and left Twelve on a whim a couple days ago, I’m not sure when the last time was that I made a decision for myself.

I didn’t choose where to settle after the war, who would follow me home, who would end up sleeping beside me at night. I could have chosen no one, could have said no, because it never felt quite right. Especially after Johanna. But I didn’t. Probably my last conscious decision was last winter, when I chose where to aim that fateful arrow. I’ve drifted aimlessly since then, guided by circumstance and well-meaning people. My own impulses never came into play because I so rarely had any. Not until early that morning, when I slipped out from beside a sleeping Peeta and disappeared silently, the note not to worry about me a mere afterthought.

I know why I left. An unexpectedly chilling nightmare that Peeta’s presence would have only exacerbated. The urge to come here in particular, I have been questioning since I boarded the train. Johanna openly despised me in public and rarely more than tolerated me in private. Our one night of passion was an aberration, though not exactly unbefitting of our tumultuous relationship. I was probably nothing more than a conquest to her, or that’s what I’ve always told myself to soothe the malcontent simmering under the surface. Her hot whispers against my cheek about the pure, almighty Mockingjay certainly suggested that, and turned me on in a strangely perverse way. But something about the way she held my gaze, not to mention held my hand, made me wonder if it was more than conquest and comfort. Made me hope, anyway. It’s likely a foolish dream, but I can’t stand not knowing any longer.

Though Seven has but one surviving victor, several houses in the Village have smoking chimneys and lights on in the front rooms when I arrive. Not wanting to announce my presence to any more bystanders, I take a minute to scour the yards for signs of my feisty former roommate. Bedmate. The front stoop with the Go Away mat and angry axe marks pockmarking the bannister looks promising. A wave of dread and renewed anxiety blanches my face and makes my gut spasm. But I didn’t come all this way to turn back now, so I steel myself and mount the steps, wooden boards creaking under my weight. Sucking in a breath, I lift my fist and knock.

No answer. Frowning, I try again, to no avail. Patiently I stand there, occasionally knocking, unwilling to accept this outcome. Silence resolves nothing. Silence will not relieve the tension roiling in my stomach, nor answer the questions bouncing around in my brain.

Stubborn as I am, I am equally weary, and the bag is causing a cramp in my shoulder. Shrugging it off and dropping it beside the door, I resolve to sit and wait for her on these steps. When I turn around to do so, I startle and just about slip on the slick wood. Johanna is standing in her yard, arms crossed, watching me with a completely neutral expression. How long has she been standing there? “Oh,” she says. “It’s you.”

When I fail to reply, Johanna cocks her head. “What’s the matter, brainless? You gone mute again?” At my continued silence, her mouth curls menacingly, like a sadistic cat enjoying her prey’s distress in its final moments. “I preferred that.”

Abrasive as ever. I shouldn’t have expected any less. Forcing my face to go blank, I respond tonelessly. “Hello, Johanna.”

Prowling closer, Johanna climbs the stairs with deliberate steps and brushes by me, much closer than necessary. “Hello, Katniss,” she purrs in passing, my name rolling off her tongue in a delicious way that sends a shiver down my spine, landing in one of those places only she has ever been able to activate. And with merely her voice, which is ridiculous. It angers me that she has the power to do that, to control me this way. Now all I can think about is my name pouring from her lips as she rode my hand to completion under the orange night-light of our compartment, greedy hands full of my br-

“Tell me, Mockingjay,” Johanna drawls, interrupting that barreling freight train of thought, “to what do I owe the honor?” She's leaning back against her door now, arms crossed once again.

“I wanted to see you.” My voice is rough from lack of use; I’ve hardly said two words to anyone since leaving Twelve. Can-you-tell-me-where-the-Victor’s-Village-is? Okay, that’s nine.

“Liar.”

My brow furrows. “Why else would I be here?”

“You suddenly just decided you wanted to see me?” she presses.

Surreptitiously, I turn my head to peek behind me. There is no one in sight, but still, I don’t want to discuss this out here. “Can we go inside and talk?”

“You know, it’s rude to invite yourself into someone else’s home,” retorts Johanna, but her shining eyes tell me she’s trying to get a rise out of me. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

“It’s also rude to strip naked in mixed company, but that never stopped you,” I shoot back, unaffected.

Though she doesn’t give me a full smile, Johanna appears a little impressed. Kind of like when I was the only one who laughed at her joke about our alliance’s survivors fighting over bread. Kind of like when she came down from the high I gave her that night, slowing her hips as she leered down at my exposed body. Smirking slyly, Johanna lifts an eyebrow and turns the doorknob, leaning backward to push the door open with her weight. “Be my guest.”

“You’re so kind,” I deadpan, because snark seems to be the only way to get Johanna’s respect. If nothing else, it procures a grin. Nabbing my bag from where it sits on the stoop, I enter the house, deliberately bumping her with it on the way by.

Her home decor reflects the flavor of her district: handmade carvings, rustic wooden tables, furniture upholstered with deep earthy tones. It's only surprising because the house’s exterior closely resembles those in the Victor's Village in Twelve. More shocking is how tidy the place is. Johanna was a complete slob of a roommate in Thirteen, though I couldn't blame her at the time what with her state of mind and all. “This isn’t so Capitol chic,” I remark as Johanna shuts the door behind me. She shrugs her jacket off and hangs it on a hook while I add, “Effie Trinket wouldn't approve.”

“Effie Trinket can suck my dick,” Johanna says gruffly on her way by me, automatically pulling a gagging expression onto my face. Chucking her gloves down on a small table between her couch and an armchair that sits on an angle to face the empty fireplace, she continues, “I got rid of all the stuff that came with the place years ago. And by ‘got rid of,’ I mean ‘hacked it to pieces and set it on fire.’” 

“Sounds like your kind of solution,” I remark as she heads for the kitchen at the back. Edging closer, I inquire, “Did you build the new stuff?”

“Yeah,” she says to the cabinet she’s rifling through. Too casually, she adds, “It was something to do other than slit my wrists or drink myself to death.” She glances over her shoulder at that and catches how my mouth is hanging partway open, between words that won’t come. Waving off my concern, she plucks a small bottle from the cupboard with a grin. “Speaking of.”

Pulling the cork out with her teeth, she spits it into the sink and takes a swig, then extends the bottle in offering to me. When I shake my head, she shrugs. “Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn't try to be hospitable.” After taking another pull and wiping her mouth, she meets my gaze. “Thought it could help warm us up.” My eyes narrow at her dancing ones, at the curl of her lips as she stalks closer. She’s toying with me. I know that feeling of prey. As in the Games, I resolve to show no fear.

Willing the blood to stay out of my cheeks, I raise my eyebrows. “That’s the best solution you can come up with?” When Johanna mirrors my expression, I nod back into the living room. “You’ve got a fireplace right there, brainless.” Now it's her turn to narrow her eyes, and I let my tongue flit over my lower lip briefly - but not too briefly, I note with satisfaction as her eyes follow it. Playing up the gravel in my already low voice, I suggest, “Why don’t you go light your fire?”

A smile creeps onto Johanna’s lips, and she chuckles as she ambles back that way. “It gets boring after a while,” she calls over her shoulder, and thankfully this is the moment I blush, when she’s not looking. She clunks the bottle down on the coffee table in front of her couch and crouches before the hearth, brushing some of the ash away to make room for a new pile of kindling.

Moving closer, I deposit my bag beside the couch before stripping off my worn leather jacket and draping it over the arm, but my gaze never leaves Johanna. Especially once her pants start to ride down her hips a little as she bends forward in her squatting position, revealing a strip of pale skin between the hem of her shirt and her underwear that’s barely clinging to the top of her ass. Unable to drag my eyes away, I nab the bottle off the table by sense of touch and down a large glug. I’m going to need this after all.

Johanna suddenly looks up from her task of arranging logs in the firebox, and from the smug look on her face, I’m pretty sure I didn’t avert my eyes quickly enough. My cheeks flush crimson and I bite my lip, avoiding her gaze. Rounding the coffee table, I sink down into the armchair and sip the nasty concoction. It’s not as disgusting as Ripper’s white liquor, but it burns my tongue and throat just as badly.

Once my reluctant hostess gets the fire sparked, she falls back against the couch, but not before swiping the bottle from my hands in passing. “So when did Paylor say you could leave Twelve?”

“A few months ago,” is my toneless reply.

Johanna twitches her eyebrows and lifts the bottle to her lips with limp fingers. “Gone anywhere since?”

“No.”

“No desire to take advantage of the newfound freedom?”

“For months I barely left the couch, let alone the house,” I mutter, staring at my fidgety hands. “Much less the district.” I swallow. “Had no desire to do anything. Not even leave.”

“So why now?” she grills me. “Cabin fever with the fiancé?” That snaps my eyes back to her, where they are greeted with a wink. “Sick of Haymitch’s shit?”

“I just…” Had to get away. Had to be with you. “Felt suffocated.”

“That's a little vague.” All I do is nod, and Johanna sits up with a frustrated groan, rolling her eyes. “You said you wanted to talk, so let's talk, Everdeen. Don’t tell me you’re here wasting my time _and_ my liquor.”

Shifting my weight, I falter, “Sorry, I… I have a hard time talking about…” My feelings. My desires. My needs. “Things.”

A caustic little sound pops out of the equally caustic little victor, narrowing my eyes. She rolls hers once again. “Spit it out, brainless. Why are you here?”

Her characteristic antagonism finally irritates me enough to override my nerves, and I snap, “Because I had a dream. Peeta and I had a couple of kids, and I was watching them play in the meadow by where I grew up.” Rolling my eyes, I release a bitter snort. “Storybook ending, right?”

Johanna’s face has gone blank, but her voice retains an undertone of sarcasm. “If that’s what you want out of life.”

“Yeah,” I scoff, my eyes drifting to the fire. “Well, that meadow is a mass grave now, you know. Nothing is right in Twelve anymore. Not me, not Peeta. I realized in this dream, it was everything that should have made me happy, but I wasn't happy. It felt like a nightmare.” Sucking in a deep breath, I look Johanna in the eye. She doesn't blink, but I catch a tiny bob in her throat that gives me the courage to say, “When I had nightmares, I used to go to you.”

Johanna snorts, waving off my words. “Sure, when Bread Boy was out of commission. I always knew I was a poor substitute, Everdeen.”

"But you weren't,” I reply with an earnestness that surprises even me. Her penetrating gaze makes me duck my head, fighting off another blush. “When you… stopped sleeping in the compartment, I missed you.” My voice almost a whisper, I admit, “I've always missed you. In my bed. In my life.”

For a moment, Johanna’s wide, shining eyes make me think I’ve gotten through to her. Then they harden along with the muscles in her jaw and the lines in her face, and my stomach twists with dread. And a touch of something else, too. Fuck, she’s sexy when she’s angry.

“I was only a call away, brainless,” she sneers. “You could have picked up the damn phone.”

“You could have too,” I counter. “I didn't call anybody for a long time, okay? My sister died, and I might as well have died with her.”

Flourishing in my direction, she observes, “Yet here you are.”

“Because with you is the only place I feel alive!”

That came out without any forethought, and I blink away sheepishly again. But Johanna’s eyes continue to bore into me. “So you want me to, what? Resurrect you?”

“I want you to try,” I mumble to the carpet.

“And why should I?” she challenges me. “Hm?” I merely twitch the corner of my mouth. “Katniss, look at me.”

The shock of hearing my first name from her in such a serious moment makes me obey without a second thought. But I'm still unsure how to answer that question. “I… I thought maybe you felt the same way,” is the best I can manage.

“And what way is that?” she condescends.

Surely, she knows what I mean. She must. Could she really have forgotten that night amongst the many sexual encounters she’s undoubtedly had? No, even if it meant nothing to her, I was the girl on fire. By all accounts, unforgettable. Squaring my shoulders, I spell out, “I wanted more. I wanted to do it again.”

“Do what?” she presses innocently.

“ _Johanna_ ,” I growl, resulting in a large grin and only slightly subdued laugh.

“Okay,” she relents, sitting forward to pat my knee placatingly. Her expression hardens again. “I knew what you wanted.”

I blink. “Then why didn’t you…?”

“Why didn’t you?” she retorts.

“Because I was scared. That you wouldn’t want to, and you’d make fun of me or something.”

“And why would I do a thing like that?” she replies in an airy tone that I can’t distinguish as genuine or facetious. Either way, it pisses me off.

“That’s all you did, Johanna!” I borderline shout. “All you ever did was mock me, belittle me. You’re doing it right now. And you wonder why it was hard for me to be vulnerable with you, to give you a chance to break my heart. I was so broken already.” My voice cracks on that last sentence, forcing me to look away. Growling inwardly, I rake my fingers along my scalp and grab a fistful of hair, squeezing to the point of pain. “Couldn’t you have stopped being intimidating, just for one moment?”

“But I did.” Only a hint of irritation is present in her tone, but her eyes tell me that my final, offhand allegation landed surprisingly deep. “Lots of times. Or have you forgotten every other time I got in your bed?”

Impossible. The fallen Capitol could have pumped me full of tracker jacker venom and subjected me to a host of horrors unlike any other, and still I would not have forgotten. Those surprisingly tender moments are burned into some deep, untouchable place in my brain. Sometimes, I call on them to comfort me when I jolt awake from the nightmares, rather than waking Peeta. It’s her arms that I crave now. Her touch. She’s ruined me for anyone else.

“No.” My brow furrows as I nibble at the inside of my cheek, considering our last exchange. “If you knew what I wanted… did you not want to?” Somehow, I doubt that. The way I would sometimes catch her eyes dragging over my body after our encounter, and even before, suggested otherwise. That was the one way in which I was pretty sure she did want me.

Johanna’s jaw clenches. “I did,” she confirms, throwing me a curt nod. “But you were tied up in the ‘star-crossed lovers’ nonsense.” My face must betray the confusion I feel, because she laughs and condescendingly shakes her head. “You’re not the only one who’s ever had your heart broken, _Mockingjay_. I’d lost everyone. And I didn’t know if I was anything more than a warm body to you.”

Blinking in bewilderment, I demand, “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” drawls Johanna. “You were a notorious heartbreaker already, what with the mutt and the brooding cousin.” My jaw twitches less than subtly at this mention of Gale. “You never seemed to know what you wanted. And if you couldn’t even tell me what you wanted from me, I couldn’t get involved in all that bullshit. I wasn't about to go chasing you.”

I sigh, pinching my brow. “For the record, the one thing I knew I wanted was to be with you again,” I confess. “It was weird and totally unexpected, and I was too afraid to say it. But it was all I could think about other than the war. I didn’t know what it meant for me or my future, I just knew I wanted you.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing, Everdeen,” she says glumly. “The future. I’m usually great at living in the now, but if you’d died in the Capitol or gone back to one of your boy toys, like you did…” Either she’s stalling or unsure what to say, because Johanna takes this moment to tip back the bottle, emptying it in a series of drawn out chugs. Even once it’s all gone and she’s come up for air, she still can’t look me in the eye. “Losing you would have hurt too much.”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much about me,” I remark drolly.

“Yeah,” she grunts. “Neither did I.” Her jaw sets, doleful eyes drilling through the coffee table. “That night made it pretty obvious, though.”

In this pivotal moment, I feel useless as ever, rendered mute and rooted to the armchair. It’s not that this is a huge surprise - I wouldn’t have come all this way had it been clear that she felt nothing for me. In fact, I came seeking clarity. But I expected more resistance. Johanna openly admitting she has feelings for me, or at the very least had feelings, is a scenario I dared not dream of when I decided to come here. Perhaps that’s why I have no idea how to respond. Employing the light teasing she often uses didn't ease her pain or get her to open up when I tried that a moment ago. Empathy is far from my strongest suit, in fact I barely have an empathy necktie to hang myself with, but I give it a shot anyway.

“Those kinds of feelings must have been pretty scary for you,” I commiserate. “After everything.”

The feisty lumberjack lifts her head, and her expression suggests that hanging myself would have been a better move. “Yeah, just a little. You’re so insightful, Everdeen.”

“Johanna-”

“I don’t need your fucking pity, Katniss. But if you’re going to pretend to care, you should at least try harder. Don’t fucking patronize me.”

“I wasn’t,” I protest.

“Give me a break,” huffs Johanna.

“I’m serious,” I insist. “I'm bad at expressing my emotions, okay?”

“I’m aware.” With that, Johanna gets up and stalks back into the kitchen. I assume she’s going to either grab more liquor or storm out the back door, possibly both, but instead she clanks the empty bottle down in the sink and stays there, staring out the window into the woods behind the house. Her hands grip the edge of the counter as she releases a long sigh, slowly deflating. This lapse, and how she’s neglecting to disguise it, gives me the courage to try once more.

Tentatively I approach her, much like I would a wounded animal awaiting its death blow with resignation. Because she is wounded. The world has wounded her over and over again, made her hard and caused her harm, harm I wish to heal. But I can’t heal her until I conquer her defenses. And my instincts tell me that my presence is already wounding her resolve, that my touch would be a most pleasant death blow to her willpower. That as much as she resists, this is what she wants me to do.

Stepping up behind the smaller girl, I press my fingertips into the small of her back and graze them upward until my palms come to rest on her shoulders. The whole time, I pay keen attention to her bodily reactions to my touch. A cringe, a shudder, a slump. Emboldened by what appears to be another crack in her armor, I continue the offensive by brushing her hair aside and leaving a kiss behind her ear. That brings on another shiver, and I bury my smile in her hair so she can’t feel it. Now running my hands down her sides, I skim them along her waist until they meet and clasp together in front of her bellybutton.

“Why now, Katniss?” Johanna’s breathed words come out less like a question and more like a knowingly futile protest. Words have gotten me nowhere with her, so I reply with more touches. Brushes of thumbs over her abdomen, a trail of kisses starting under her jaw and working its way down her neck. I remember she likes that. Her head tips to the side with a groan, allowing me better access. She can surely feel the renewed grin on my lips this time, but says nothing about it, only sighs. “I was just getting my shit together.”

Before I can respond, she turns in my embrace and loops her arms around my neck. The feel of her body pressing into mine temporarily robs me of my ability to move, but I don’t need to, because she’s already tipping her chin up to meet my lips in a passionate kiss. She moans into the contact and I unconsciously echo her, my core suddenly thrumming in a way it hasn’t in well over a year. I part my lips to let her probing tongue slip past, one of my hands roaming down beneath her underwear to give that tight little ass a squeeze.

Johanna gasps and winds her tiny hands into the back of my shirt, clutching the collar fiercely. My brain can't decipher whether it's a passionate or possessive gesture for a second, and that's long enough to pull me from the moment. No matter, my body is happy to keep up appearances on its own. While my hands splay on the small of her back, my mind meanders back over her words from moments ago. I’ve never been able to escape the notion that I am a bringer of death and destruction, and apparently neither has Johanna. Is that not why she put distance between us in the first place, because she feared I would leave her and thereby destroy her? My admission that I came seeking resurrection may not have helped. That could easily mean using and discarding her, among other opportunistic things.

No, I’m not here to consume her and then leave. I’m here on the hope that I can build something new. With her. I dip my chin enough to break contact, but have to turn my head to fend off her hungry lips long enough to say, “Johanna.” Lifting my head again to meet her eyes, I find them impatient but curious. Holding them earnestly, I swear, “I’m not here to destroy you.”

Her molten brown orbs grow slightly, then flutter shut as her lungs kick out a small but sharp breath. I want to give her more assurances, but words have not worked so well for me today, so I don’t push it. Opting instead to speak our most natural language, I cinch my arms tighter to draw her close, my bare forearms gliding along the strip of skin above her waistband. The contact culls a small groan from her, her fists tightening again as she lifts her mouth to my ear.

“I want you to,” she growls, sending a jolt of electricity shooting down my spine. It strikes hard between my legs, making me gasp. Pulling back just enough for her fierce gaze to burn into my retinas, she nods at the ceiling. “Upstairs.”

***

Breaths catching, clothes flying, feet stumbling, we fall into Johanna’s bed. The chill of her sheets does nothing to quench the fire consuming us. It’s not like our first time, not even remotely. Gone are her playfulness and patience, replaced by fury and fervor. I don’t mind a single bit. With a little more experience under my belt, so to speak, I am no longer the timid and wide-eyed pupil I was in our compartment. Her surprise at my newfound aggression is evident when I gnarl in her ear and roll on top of her only moments in, but if the noises she proceeds to make are any indication, she doesn’t mind either.

The roughness and raw passion of her touch have a counterintuitively restorative quality. Her hands heal me. Her lips and tongue stoke the long dormant coals in my belly. Her body heat thaws my frozen soul. With her nails biting at my skin, I feel alive again.

Despite the intensity of this union, we don’t burn out for what feels like hours. When we do collapse, her sweaty body slumped against mine, she lets out a chuckle. “Wow. Not so pure anymore, are we?” My only answer is a grin and a kiss to her forehead. It crumples adorably against my lips and she nestles it beneath my chin, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. In the moments that follow, the only ambient sounds are the excited chirps of distant birds and the muted scratchy sound of my fingertips lazily brushing over her back. And the beating of both our hearts. Slowing, but still pounding.

Johanna’s voice finally pierces the quiescence. “When do you leave?”

My whole body goes tense. We’re recovering from this most intimate high, and that’s all she can think about? Me leaving? “What?” I ask, my voice painfully dark and toneless.

“You didn’t pack much,” she mumbles.

Eyes rolling, I sigh loudly and push my head back into the pillow, prompting her to look up. I level my gaze at her. “Did you expect me to bring a huge bag when I didn’t even know if you’d let me in the door?”

“You could have called and asked,” she points out.

“You would have told me not to come.”

Johanna shrugs. “Probably.”

Though I think I know the answer, I narrow my eyes and demand, “Why?”

“Because you have a history of destroying shit,” she says, confirming my suspicions. “Arenas. Countries. Hearts.”

I lift a sassy eyebrow. “What ever happened to wanting me to destroy you?”

“Heh,” she chuckles, dropping her eyes sheepishly to the blankets. “I want you here to put me together again. Or at least be broken with me.” My expression must be a confused mess, because she rolls her eyes upon looking back up. “Look, you can’t just come sweeping through here like a hurricane whenever you want and then disappear. That’s really selfish, even for you.”

The implications of what she’s saying allow me to brush off the offense of that last remark. After a couple of blinks, I infer, “So… you want me to stay?”

“I don't know,” she admits, nibbling on her cheek. Her gaze hardens. “But I do know that if you think you can hop on a train and come get your jollies off with me anytime because Bread Boy can't get it up or you can’t get wet for him, then you can forget about it.”

My eyes roll again, this time at her crassness. “That’s not what this was about.”

Glancing down at her chest littered with bite marks, she remarks, “Could’ve fooled me.”

“No, I mean, it’s not about Peeta,” I explain, trying unsuccessfully not to blush. “Not the sex part, anyway. He’s not bad, but that’s not the point.”

“Oh.” Johanna averts her suddenly cold eyes. “So you _have_ slept with him.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I groan frustratedly. “Johanna, if you wanted to lay claim to me, you should have done it when you had the chance. You made me feel like you didn’t want me.”

Her eyes flick back, full of equal parts anger and surprise. “I told you, if you’d died-”

“Yeah yeah, or gotten back together with Peeta,” I interject. “But you could’ve come to Twelve. After the war. Peeta didn’t show up for a while.” Glowering down the bed, I mutter, “I would’ve rather you shown up than him.”

“Really?” she drawls, clearly unconvinced.

“Yeah,” I snap. “But oh no, you were too busy being mad at me over Finnick or not shooting Snow or whatever the hell your problem was.”

“Fuck you,” scowls Johanna.

I toss a hand in the air. “You could’ve, if you’d been there.”

Johanna scoffs. “So, what? Were you just gonna fuck whoever showed up to take care of you? You fuck Haymitch for escorting you home and tucking you into bed?”

My face contorts in horror. “That’s disgusting, Jo.”

“Seemed reasonable to me,” she shrugs. “All someone has to do is show up and be nice to you, and it’s open season on the Mockingjay.”

“Untrue,” I spit. “You were never nice to me.” That shuts her up long enough for me to take a calming breath and gather my thoughts. “My point was, if you’d been there, Peeta and I would not have grown back together. I would’ve had who I really wanted.”

Johanna’s cocked eyebrow suggests me doesn’t believe me in the slightest. “So if things are so peachy with the mutt, why are you here?”

“I didn’t say that!” I bark. I’m really done with her shit. “Damn it, why do you have to be so difficult?”

That eyebrow stays high. “Since when do you like things to be easy?”

“I don’t,” I grumble to the blankets. A moment of self-reflection later, I concede, “Or at least I didn’t. Lately I’ve been lying around and letting life happen to me, taking the path of least resistance.” Sucking in a deep breath, I lift my head to meet her gaze with a determined one. “I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to live my life, make choices for myself.”

Raising my left hand from where it rests behind her, I trace a couple of fingertips up and down her spine, hoping to open the door to Johanna that only seems to respond to touch. “I’m not happy with Peeta,” I declare. “I’m not alive with him. But you… I feel so alive every time I’m with you. You don’t just make me happy. You make me angry, frustrated, nervous, overjoyed. You make me feel everything.”

Johanna smirks, probably to distract me from the faint sheen in her eyes and bob in her throat. Grazing a finger down through my cleavage, she waggles her eyebrows. “Everything?”

Throwing her some side-eye and a groan, I admit, “Yes, that too. And…” I swallow hard. “Head over heels.” Her hand stops, flattening on my ribcage as her eyes go wide. “Those aren’t things I ever really felt for Peeta,” I tell her. "He'd never be enough, not after you."

Slowly she nods her head. “Okay,” she breathes out, giving my side a squeeze. “I hear you." Retracting her hand, Johanna takes a breath to compose herself, briefly blinking away. “Won’t you miss home?”

"Twelve is nothing but ghosts and ashes to me. It's not home, it's not happy, not without Prim. I wouldn’t go back at all if all my stuff wasn’t still there.” My eyelids flutter as I remember something. “Do you like cats?”

Johanna’s brow scrunches. “I thought you hated cats.”

“I hate Buttercup,” I clarify. “But he’s decided he’s mine now, and he’s all I have left of her, so.” My eyes flick away, as they often do when a painful memory arises and I am not alone. They settle on the peak in the blankets over my feet as I try to ignore the burgeoning cramp in my throat.

“She was a sweet kid,” my bedmate hazards. I can feel the concern in her gaze without moving my eyes.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “She was.”

Three fingers hook on my jawbone and pull gently, turning my face to the left. Johanna’s lips are there to meet it, pressing against mine softly. Their miniscule movements say more than the grandest gesture could. I am cared for. I am safe. Maybe even, I am loved. This is the first kiss we’ve shared that is not sexual in nature. I like it just as much, if not more.

Bringing my right hand up to where hers rests on my cheek, I slip my thumb under her palm and slowly pull her hand away. Now watching our hands, I turn mine to weave our fingers together. I end up brushing my thumb back and forth over her index finger, mesmerized by the sight of our entwined hands. “I’ve missed you so much,” I whisper. “Every day.” Flicking my eyes back to Johanna, I find hers wide and attentive. “Even when I couldn’t feel anything, I felt your hands on me. I wanted you there.”

Now it’s my turn to kiss her, shifting onto my side to find her lips and give the lower one a little tug with my teeth. A sharp breath pops from her lungs and she reinitiates contact, pushing forward to deepen the kiss. My left hand drags its nails up her back, then winds its fingers in her hair and closes into a fist, tipping her head back a little. After kissing down her neck, I drag my lips up to her ear and whisper, “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to.”

Johanna groans inwardly and blinks herself back to sanity. It takes a few seconds. “You should probably go get your shit, you’re right.” Her trace of a smile disappears as she drops her eyes, biting her lip. “But maybe you should stick around for a while first. Before you uproot your whole life. Make sure you can stand me.”

Rolling forward to force the girl onto her back, I grin down on her. “Oh, Jo, I already know I can’t stand you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a fully canon-compliant Joniss fic that allowed them a happy ending earlier than middle-age, so I came up with this idea of making the epilogue a dream. Cheating? Maybe.
> 
> Thanks to D7P for betaing this one shot for me on top of all my other ongoing projects. And Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in the USA!


End file.
